


Sweet Tooth

by amorremanet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Human, Chubby Castiel, Ficlet, M/M, Schmoop, Sharing Clothes, Weight Gain, chubby!kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-12-19 05:00:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Huffing, Cas yanks the sweatshirt back down again, but it's pointless: all it does in retaliation is slide back up his belly…</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Tooth

**Author's Note:**

> This was written, first and foremost, for [this prompt](http://chubwinchesters.livejournal.com/130913.html?thread=2003297#t2003297) from the current ~chubwinchesters request anything meme. The other prompts used here are, "au: all human" for trope bingo and "sweet" for 100 things (random prompts).

Cas frowns at his full-length mirror and tugs on the hem of his hooded sweatshirt—well, actually, it's not  _his_  hoodie so much as  _Sam's_  hoodie—Sam's oversized red hoodie with the Stanford emblem emblazoned on the chest—but that fact doesn't help Cas keep it from riding up on him.  
  
Sighing doesn't help the problem, either—at least sucking in his breath a little kept his stomach back from pressing out against his clothes, but letting it out again means letting his belly surge forward again, which means that the sweatshirt rides back up, exposing a pale strip of stretch-marked skin and the way that the upper roll of Cas's belly sags over his jeans in a sizable muffin-top. On top of that, the waistband slices hard into his skin—a fact made even worse by how these jeans fit him perfectly just a few months ago, when he started his so-called diet.  
  
He brushes his hands down his paunch, tracing over the places where it rounds out and trying to smooth out all the places where the sweatshirt wrinkles around middle, struggles to accommodate his girth and soundly fails. And in the back of his mind, Cas can't help thinking that he's just getting what he deserves with this. Cas's mother always told him that his sweet tooth would get him in the end, but it's only now, staring down his reflection and the full reality of Sam's hoodie stretched around his round belly, that he's beginning to think she might have been right.  
  
Maybe Cas let his sweet tooth get the better of him. Maybe he's been letting it get the better of him for months now, ever since Sam and his brother opened up a bakery together, ever since Cas started working from home (because freelance writing means that he can work anywhere). Maybe Cas hasn't been dieting as much as he's been slacking off and procrastinating on his diet. Maybe he could've cut back some more on the milkshakes or the cheeseburgers. Maybe he could've actually committed to getting out of the apartment and working out, the way that he intended to do.  
  
Maybe Cas could've done a lot of things, but all he has now is his commitment to getting this shirt on properly. Huffing, Cas yanks the sweatshirt back down again, but it's pointless: all it does in retaliation is slide back up his belly, leave him to stand there with the roll of pudge showing, feeling vulnerable even if no one else is here to judge him for the way that it sags over the waistband of his jeans.  
  
Repeating the process gets the same result, and because no one's around to hear him do it, Cas lets slip a frustrated whine—Sam's red Stanford hoodie has been one of his favorites to steal and wear since they started dating, and it's been the most resilient in the past year, as Cas has put on all this weight. When the grey hoodie got too small for him, Cas had the Stanford hoodie. When he outgrew the black one with Sam's high school soccer team number on the back, he had the Stanford hoodie. When he couldn't zip up the cozy, charcoal hoodie anymore—or even get the two sides to meet—he could fall back on the warmth and comfort and security of the Stanford hoodie.  
  
Even back in September, when Cas tipped the scales at two-hundred and fifteen pounds this hoodie had room for him to breathe in. Not a  _lot_  of room, granted—after all, he weighed as much as Sam weighed at the time, save that Cas is half-a-foot shorter than his boyfriend and none of his extra weight was muscle—but Cas could still curl up in the Stanford hoodie and lose himself in the excess fabric. Now, with the holidays behind them and Valentine's Day coming up in a couple weeks, Cas can feel that same fabric chafing up against his skin, cutting into his soft, flabby middle and probably leaving behind angry red marks. Staring at his reflection just highlights what he feels, with the fabric clinging to his plump belly.  
  
The sight without the hoodie on isn't that much better, either, Cas learns the hard way as he wriggles out of the sweatshirt and drops it to the floor, unbuttons his jeans and pries them off his hips. Clad in just a t-shirt and his skin-tight boxer-briefs, Cas looks that much chubbier: his jiggling thighs stretch his shorts to their limit, and his t-shirt—also stolen from Sam—absolutely refuses to stay put and cover up his belly like it's supposed to do. Not only has he gotten too fat for the majority of his own clothes, but Cas has outgrown all of his muscle-bound, Hulk-sized boyfriend's clothes as well. So much for all the weight he was supposed to be losing. So much for the diet he's supposed to have been on.  
  
Combing his fingers back through his hair, Cas turns his back on the mirror and sulks into the bathroom instead. If he's going to get back on track with his, "get thin again" New Year's resolution—if he's going to get back on a diet—then he'll at least need to get a fix on how much weight he's gained and how bad the problem's gotten. He'll need to know how much weight he has to lose. Cas sighs and closes his eyes as he climbs up on the scale. He holds his breath and leans forward—and he groans when he sees the bright red  _251_  glaring up at him.  
  
Cas knows better than to beat his forehead on the wall, so he knocks it into the wall as gently as possible. Maybe he should've listened at Christmas dinner, when Mother asked him if he really wanted a third helping of dessert.  
  


*******

  
Sam comes home from work with a box of cupcakes—worse than that, he comes home with a box that contains sixteen of Dean's  _specialty_  cupcakes, the chocolate chocolate-chip ones with the fudge frosting and the crushed up Oreo cookie pieces.  
  
Cas would call these delectable confections his weakness, but if the empty cookie packages and empty candy bags in the trash prove anything, it's that he doesn't just have one weakness. He has a whole cluster of sugar-laden weaknesses—which just so happens to include the stupid cupcakes. And since he's already thrown the so-called diet out the window for tonight, Cas unwraps one, licks up all the frosting first and practically inhales the cake bit. He should probably skip that—just like how he should probably throw out dinner suggestions that aren't pizza and Thai take-out—but one cupcake isn't going to kill him or set his diet back any more than his other indulgences already have.  
  
Except that, "one cupcake" quickly turns into unwrapping a second, chomping into it without even bothering to lick the frosting off—Cas tongues it off his upper lip instead, with his only concern being whether or not he gets it all into his mouth. The second cupcake leads to the third, which leads to the fourth, and finally, as Sam's paying the pizza guy, Cas is starting in on his fifth.  
  
Realistically, Cas knows that this is doing nothing to help him fit back into Sam's hoodies—but all the chocolate tastes so good as it's sliding down his throat, so heavy and sweet. Cas barely notices when Sam sets a plate down next to him, and at that, he only takes note of it because he smells the pizza, because Sam loudly clears his throat when Cas doesn't put cupcake number five down and immediately start in on his dinner. Once he's done with number five, Cas does Sam the courtesy of looking up at him, and he's met not with the expression he expects—one of Sam's disgruntled faces, and probably the one that wonders if Cas has any sense of self-perception—but with a knotted brow and a wrinkled nose.  
  
Sam's making a  _concerned_  face at Cas instead—a thesis that finds all the support it needs when Sam asks if Cas is all right.  
  
"Not that I'm trying to say you can't make your own food choices," Sam says. "I mean, we're adults, and you can have dessert before dinner if you want to—but five cupcakes before dinner is kind of a lot? And you usually only get like that—hankering for the sugar and all—when something's not going right?"  
  
Cas sighs and shakes his head. "It's not of import," he says, and immediately regrets slouching over in his seat. That just spills his belly out further into his lap. "I merely need to recommit myself to dieting properly. Not least because it looks increasingly likely that I might end up the size of a house by your birthday. …It would need to be a rather small house, and I'm speaking metaphorically, but my point remains."  
  
For a moment, Sam says nothing, just blinks at Cas until Cas looks down to the table—and even then, he just nudges his toes into Cas's ankle until Cas looks back up. "How bad was it?" Sam says.  
  
"Two-hundred and fifty-one pounds. Confirmed by how I no longer fit into your old Stanford sweatshirt at all, in case you wish to make the argument that the scale could have been off." Cas rubs at the bridge of his nose. "And in case you are trying to ignore the math, that means I have gained nearly one hundred pounds since we moved in here. I believe that the, 'domestic bliss' excuse rather loses its ability to account for my weight gain when we consider the facts."  
  
"Yeah, I'd say it's more on your sweet tooth, but…" Sam sighs and reaches across the table to grab Cas's hand. He laces their fingers up and gives Cas's hand a squeeze. "Look, Cas—if you really want to lose the weight, that's fine, and I'll support you in that. But just so you know? I don't care if you don't want to lose it, either. I just want you to be happy, however it comes about."  
  
It takes Cas a moment, but he does manage to look back up at Sam. And squeezing Sam's hand in return, he leans over their plates to steal a kiss.


End file.
